


O Rose, Thou Art—

by stapling_pages



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Sugar Daddy Harry Potter, Ball-Jointed Dolls, Clothing, Dolls, Horcruxes, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pampering, Power Bottom Tom Riddle, Power Bottom Voldemort, Slow Burn, accidental necromancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21566836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: If you tell a Leannán Sídhe you love her, you become her slave. If she says it first, she is yours.Tom Riddle, in all his many forms, has always been muse and siren both. Teeth bared in ravenous greed, dragging his chosen up to dizzying heights before watching them fall. A kept god, when it suited him.Harry just doesn’t want to be alone anymore.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 14
Kudos: 242





	O Rose, Thou Art—

“I’ll be okay,” Harry says as he fiddles with the leftovers of his hamburger. Around them, the evening crowd is picking up as business folks get off work. A few give Hagrid strange looks but don’t stop their swift strides. “You don’t have to wait with me.”

“I don’t mind waitin’ with yeh.”

“You probably have lots to do, though.” He nibbles at a chip that’s gone cold, trying not to wrinkle his nose. Cold potatoes are gross. “Even with magic, taking care of a castle’s got to be a lot of work.”

“I got help, and—”

It takes longer than Harry likes, but eventually he manages to soothe Hagrid’s worries enough for him to give in. They clean up the remains of their dinner, gather Harry’s school things, and head to a shadowed alcove. Hagrid lays a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Go straight to yer aunt’s house, now, and owl me if yeh get in any trouble.” Hagrid sniffs loudly, as if he’s got a cold. “I’ll see yeh when yeh get to Hogwarts.”

He pats Harry’s shoulder once, gives him a watery smile, and disappears with a crackling pop. Harry leaves the quiet little alcove and heads for the station’s exit.

Harry feels a little bad lying to Hagrid after he’s been so nice to him, but Harry doesn’t want to return to his relatives’ just yet. Not when he has so much to learn about the new world he’s found himself a part of. There are so many questions he wants answered before he goes to Hogwarts. And he doubts Uncle Vernon has calmed down any, what with Dudley’s new tail and Harry’s blatant disobedience. So it’s better that he doesn’t go back for a while.

Finding his way back to Diagon Alley while Harry is still hampered by his new school supplies is tricky without Hagrid there to part the crowds. He regrets talking himself out of getting the nicer trunk—the one with special charms on it to make travel easier for students. Maybe the shopkeeper will let him trade in for one. Harry hopes so.

Rushing adults bump into him, sparing only sharp glares. There’s one collision that nearly sends his new snowy owl and her cage rolling into the busy street, but Harry manages to catch her cage just in time. He spends awhile in an alley, frantically apologizing to her and checking for injuries.

When he finally makes it to the Leaky Cauldron, the dinner crowd has died down. The only customers are a handful of exhausted, red-robed witches and wizards sharing tables in small groups, bent over their meals and muttering to each other. No one looks up when Harry enters. The barkeep from earlier is gone. Instead, a tiny old witch—barely taller than Harry, with strawberry blonde hair fading into white—is at the till, scribbling something in a large, leather-bound book.

With butterflies running riot in his stomach, Harry hurries to the till. He attempts to keep his fringe flattened over his forehead, hoping to hide his scar. He doesn’t want a repeat of the first time he was here. Too much attention makes him claustrophobic—it’s worse with people he doesn’t know.

He stops at the counter, sucks in a deep breath. It does nothing to calm him.

“Um, excuse me?”

The old woman looks up from her writing, smiles. It’s a nice smile, made kinder by deep laugh lines and crow’s feet. Harry tries to smile back. He doesn’t think he gets it right.

“Yes, dearie?”

Behind him, someone sighs heavily while another snickers. There’s a muffled thump of a fist hitting a skull. Harry swallows.

“I’d like to rent a room until September 1st,” he says. Harry doubts the ten galleons he has will cover it. Hopefully, he can pay for part of it now, then pay off the rest once he’s visited his vault again.

She hums, flipping to a different page in her book.

“How many are in your party?” Her smile drops a little, becomes strained when she looks over his shoulder and doesn’t find an adult. “Are you by yourself? Where are you parents?”

The chatter behind him goes quiet.

With meaty hands, dread presses down on his shoulders. He hasn’t thought of a lie, didn’t think anyone would care enough to ask. His brain scrambles, tripping over itself to think of _something._ Harry goes with the first coherent idea.

“They—they’ve got a business trip they couldn’t get out of,” he says in a rush. “I got my letter really last minute, you see, and we were kinda scrambling already, so . . .” He stops, shrugs weakly. Hopes this is enough. “I’m not a kid anymore, so it’s fine.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but gives him a key anyway.

“My name is Olivia. If you need anything, just ask myself or my husband, Tom,” she says. “Your room is on the first floor, third door down: number 14.”

“Thank you. Oh, my name’s Ha—Henry.” His smile feels twitchy and fake. “Um, do I pay now or . . . ?”

“Five galleons now, and the rest at checkout.”

He bids Olivia a quick goodnight to hurry to his room. Despite its worn floor, scratchy blankets and fogged up window, the little hotel room is nicer than his room at the Dursleys’. He can’t hear his uncle snoring down the hall or Dudley playing a computer game. Mrs. Figg’s cats aren’t yowling at each other well into midnight. Instead, there’s only the soft rustle of the snowy owl’s feathers and his own breathing.

Harry sleeps peacefully, dreaming of parents who love him and the friends he might make, and other things Aunt Petunia told him were lies.

.

A heavy weight presses on Harry’s shoulders, curving his spine as he mentally prepares himself for what is to come. He sucks in a deep breath that scraps like knives at his throat.

“I’ve never gotten any letters from Gringotts.” He cringes, chances a peek at the goblin across form him.

Redax purses her lips, a scowl building like thunder during a storm. Her long, sharp nails gouge groves into her desk.

“I—I’m sorry?” Harry tries. His fingers dig into his chair’s thin cushion.

He carefully doesn’t look at the axe mounted on the wall behind her. He doesn’t know what else to say. Yesterday was the first time he knew he had _any_ money at all—let alone enough for the bank to want to talk with him. Had he known before, Harry wouldn’t have stayed with his relatives. He would have ran away and never looked back.

Of course, had his _relatives_ known they would’ve taken everything from him.

“This isn’t your falling, boy.” She takes up a mean looking quill, jagged and sharp, to fill out another form. “It will take longer than the month we have to sort out your finances and explain the duties of a Lord. I would suggest hiring someone to aid you until you’ve the time to handle it yourself. If it would please you, Gringotts will screen the applicants.” With a flourish, Redax signs the form and places it in a golden tray, where it vanishes in a soft flicker of light. “You must be careful in who you appoint. Over the years, various persons have made attempts to worm their way into your accounts.”

“What?” Harry whispers, voice cracking.

Redax is quick to reassure him.

“They are all serving terms in Azkaban. Speaking of—” she plucks a thin file from a dwindling stack “—there is another matter that must be addressed.”

Harry hesitates. More bad news? He swallows and takes the file from her, opens it.

She tells him the rest of the story of how his parents were killed, the parts Hagrid left out. A Secret shared amongst friends. The death of Peter Pettigrew. The revelation of Sirius Black’s betrayal—and the curious string of events that leaves Harry in charge of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

“So, he made me his heir then sold out my parents.” Pushing up his glasses, Harry rubs his eyes. Everything could’ve been different, if only— “Why? It doesn’t make any sense.”

He raises the file’s only photo. It’s of a handsome young man, barely twenty, grinning sheepishly atop a huge motorcycle and waving at whoever’s behind the camera. He looks happy and healthy, skin flush with life under stubble and the beginnings of a goatee. Harry’s jaw trembles.

It’s just _perfect,_ isn’t it? Harry discovers he’s a wizard—that there’s a whole world beyond the faded walls of his room at his aunt’s house. He has a place. He _belongs_ somewhere! Except, his godfather—the man his parents _trusted_ above all others—is the reason Harry grew up in a cupboard. Lily and James Potter weren’t just murdered, they were _betrayed._

Harry had grown up as the neighborhood _freak_ —the sickly, criminal boy his aunt and uncle had _graciously_ taken in—because of Sirius Black. The photo blisters and smokes in his hold. His parents were _dead_ because of this—this _bastard._ Trapped in the photo, Black has nowhere to escape from the encroaching line of char eating away at his prison.

Redax remains silent.

Carelessly, Harry lets go and watches the photo drift to the floor, still burning.

“Alright.” He steps on the photo, grinds it into the floor. Wishes he could do the same to Black’s face instead. “What does this mean for me?”

“That the privileges and responsibilities of House Black are yours,” says Redax. “Of course, as with House Potter, you cannot officially become Lord Black until you’ve sat your O.W.L. exam and passed with at least an Acceptable in the core classes.”

“Okay. Is there anything else?”

“Indeed, there is. A piece of your inheritance has gone missing.” She picks up another folder, opens it, and slides the contents across her desk. Harry leans forward. “The item is a hooded cloak made of an unspecified material, is approximately two meters in length, and is imbued with various invisibility charms. It was placed in Gringotts by James Potter on 20 February 1979, and then removed on 13 September 1980, shortly before your parents went into hiding.

“Per client instructions, after their deaths Gringotts moved to recover the cloak and hold it in trust until you received your Hogwarts letter, after which we were to pass it along to you directly. However, we have been unable to locate it.”

Grimacing as if the very words are glass shards in her mouth, Redax falls silent. Harry can kind of understand it. Everything he's learned about Gringotts tells him they take their responsibilities _very_ seriously. Admitting they failed to do something must be . . .

But it isn’t her fault, and Harry tells her that.

“Failure is failure, Heir Potter. But—thank you.” She shuffles her files back into a neat pile. “Rest assured knowing Gringotts continues to search for the artifact, and the second we find it, you will be informed and we will reclaim it for you.”

“Thanks.”

Gathering up his paperwork, Redax signs one last form before making him a copy of everything. A final sweep sets everything on her desk back into its proper place. Together, they leave the room. Black’s photo lies forgotten on the floor.

Redax leaves him in the bank’s foyer. Harry stares at the ceiling, papers clutched tightly to his chest. The bright feeling that blossomed in him as he first stepped foot in Diagon Alley is slowly dimming, fading from gold to a muddy copper.

He hates it, wishes he could go back to that beautiful, golden feeling.

With a deep breath, Harry pushes forward.

.

On the seventh day of his exploration of Diagon Alley, Harry finds a tiny shop tucked down a dark, narrow backstreet. He’s gone down the back alley to escape a toothless, grinning hag trying to sell him severed fingers. So far, Harry doesn’t like Knockturn Alley much.

The shop’s narrow window is frosted with lines of gold looping around each other in the corners, like glimmering Gordian knots. Delicate, golden cursive reads: _Âme de Marionnette—the Daemonion Shoppe_. Just under that, behind the only part of the window not frosted, sits a doll on a velvet chair, dressed in a pale robe.

Harry stops and stares.

The doll is nothing like the ones the girls at his old school fawn over, with their odd proportions and cheap materials. This one is an adult in miniature, its face carved in painstaking detail with a hint of a sweet smile. Instead of colored plastic, the doll is carved from porcelain that seems to glow in the weak light. Its hair has the subtle gloss of real hair as it falls over tiny shoulders in perfect waves to pool at the doll’s bare feet. The doll’s hair and eyes are colorless in a strange way, neither white nor grey or any other color. They’re almost translucent in their colorlessness, as if they haven’t decided what color they want to be yet.

His fingers press against glass, tracing the doll’s face.

It’s pretty, exactly what Harry imagines a fairy looks like.

A familiar spark jolts through him, settles like fairy dust and cobwebs in his throat. He breaths around it, tries to swallow it down like he’s taught himself, but—Harry wants one.

It’s probably strange for a boy to want a doll, but Harry has always liked pretty things. The expensive china Aunt Petunia keeps on the highest shelves of the display cabinet, painted with flowers and gold leaf, kept for a rainy day that never comes. The tiny ballerinas on Mrs. Figg’s mantelpiece, standing en pointe, dressed in silver and white, and strictly forbidden. The copper and glass snowflake he stole off last year’s Christmas tree. Pretty, lovely things that Harry Potter isn’t allowed.

This time, though, there’s no one around to say Harry _can’t_ have what he wants.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Harry grasps the doorknob and wrenches the door open. He rushes into the shop like his aunt is on his heels. His courage is lost a few steps in. The door closes silently behind him.

A heavy stillness reigns over the bare shop. A single row of five glass display cases line one wall, each holding a tiny doll. Across from them, under a brass chandelier, is a sitting area with a plush velvet couch and matching armchairs. On the low coffee table is a tea service. At the room’s far end are the till and the shopkeeper.

Mesmerized, Harry takes another step.

Across the room, the shopkeeper looks up. Standing before him on the counter is the source of Harry’s amazement.

“—how could you _forget_ to order thestral bone? Of all the incompetent—”

Waving her sheet of parchment in the man’s face, the doll continues ranting. Her bronze hair bounces around her shoulders as she moves. She’s dressed in layered robes, shifting blues and greens that mimic peacock feathers. Even in the high-heeled shoes she’s wearing, the doll barely comes up to the man’s shoulders. Harry can’t stop staring.

“My dear,” the shopkeeper cuts in, “we have a customer.”

The doll freezes. Slowly, she turns her head. Blinks at Harry.

“Oh!” She shoves the parchment into the shopkeeper’s hands, brushes down her skirts. Turns to face Harry fully and smiles. “Good afternoon, sir!” She goes into a deep curtsy. “I am Martel, and this fool is Casimir. Welcome to Âme de Marionnette.” As she rises, Casimir straightens.

“What can this lowly shop help you with?” he asks with a smile that shows too many teeth.

Under their combined attention, Harry flounders. He tries to answer Martel’s smile, but it sits heavy and awkward on his face, and he lets it crumble away.

“Um, the window—are there—I mean, do you have any that are like that but aren’t—that are . . .” he trails off.

Martel takes pity on him.

“Perhaps an overview of our services first,” she suggests.

She pats Casimir’s arm and waits for him to move so she can sit delicately in the crook of his elbow. They move to the sitting area, where Casimir summons the display cases and a thin, leather-bound book that he passes to Harry. With a tap of a wand, the tea service comes to life, pouring steaming black tea into silver and glass cups.

Harry opens the book to find a menu of sizes—from a tiny ten centimeters all the way to a full meter—and types of bone china—chimera, dragon, kelpie, occamy, and thestral. There is no list of color options or hair types.

“Um . . .”

“The daemonion we sell are bases,” Casimir begins, waving to the row of tiny dolls. All of them are in the same colorless state as the one in the window. “They’re canvases, if you will. The ritual used to animate a daemonion also determines their final appearance, as well as their personality. Of course, the ritual is designed so that the castor’s preferences take precedence.”

Harry glances at Martel, only to find her looking right at him with a knowing grin.

“What do you mean?”

“If, say, you wish for them to have long hair or dark eyes, the ritual would take that into account. It’s the same with any personality traits you would prefer.”

“Like loyalty,” Harry says without thinking.

He gets a strange look from both of them.

“Yes.” Casimir take a sip of tea. “Although, the ritual is such that it . . . _encourages_ loyalty. A daemonion is hard-pressed to betray their master.”

“Okay.” Harry reads through the menu again. “Uh, what’s the difference between the porcelains?”

Casimir vanishes the glass encasing the blank dolls. Harry reaches forward but hesitates.

“Go on!” says Martel.

Carefully, Harry picks up the closest doll. Unlike the others, this one has flecks and veins of silver running through it. The doll is tiny, a ten centimeter one. His hands are shaking. He doesn’t understand how Casimir can call them unfinished when they’re so _pretty._

“Each is sympathetic to different frequencies of magic. However, the effect is minute enough that you can select whichever you prefer without fear. Beyond that, the other differences are merely physical.” Casimir gestures to the doll Harry is holding. “Occamy has some silver in it, while dragon bone is good if you expect heavy or rough handling.” He pauses. “Although, thestral—”

“I’m made from thestral bone!” Martel brags, thrusting out a hand and wriggling her fingers so that Harry could better see how the light gives her pale form a familiar glow. “The doll in the window is, too.” She shares a long look with Casimir. Slowly, he smiles, teeth gleaming.

“Thestral?” Harry doesn’t have a clue what kind of animal that is. He doesn’t know what a kelpie or an occamy is, either. “Do you—like it?”

“Oh, yes. It’s very comfortable, and has _such beauty!_ You won’t get such loveliness from _chimera._ ” Martel laughs. “There were a couple of months where I had to endure a dragon bone daemonion.” She turns away, sniffs delicately behind a sleeve as she gazes off into the distance. “Those were dark times.”

Casimir sighs. “My dear, I apologized for that. And you were just as lovely then—”

She ignores him, turning her head just enough to wink at Harry.

“Such dark days.” She collapses against Casimir, boneless and sprawling, with a moaning wail. “My poor _luminous beauty—"_

“Please don’t mind her.” Casimir sighs again. “She’s become a tad spoiled, I’m afraid.” He looks down at her with a fond smile.

Biting his lip, Harry nods. Swallows and tries not to resent how comfortable they are with each other. Tries to ignore the familiar pang of loneliness. Harry’s never had anyone, every potential friend chased off by Dudley or pulled away by their parents. Maybe—he’d come in here expecting to get a normal doll, something pretty that would be _his,_ not a _living_ one. That’s more responsibility then he was expecting, on top of school and running his Houses. But, if it means he isn’t _alone_ anymore . . . if it means Harry has a friend, one he can trust and won’t leave him, a friends that’s _his,_ then—

He breathes out, straightens to meet Casimir’s curious gaze.

“I’d like to buy a sixty centimeter thestral daemonion, please.”

It’ll be worth it.


End file.
